


Writing From The Heart

by thepinkdreamer



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, writing fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-17
Updated: 2013-05-17
Packaged: 2017-12-12 03:06:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/806456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thepinkdreamer/pseuds/thepinkdreamer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is a greetings card writer and Sherlock is a columnist for a science magazine, they meet in a writing convention.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Writing From The Heart

John sat at his desk with his tongue between his teeth. It was a birthday card, how hard could it be to compose a stupid greeting for someone's birthday? Except with the millions birthday cards in the market, coming up with a stupid phrase to congratulate someone on the anniversary of their birth was proving incredibly hard.

That was it! John started typing slowly.

**_Congratulations on the anniversary of your birth! May your day be filled with laughter and mirth._ **

That should satisfy his editor adequately, it was part cheeky, part funny. Hopeful Sarah would not find the cheesy rhyme too pathetic, he was truly out of ideas. 

John sent out the e-mail with the silly birthday phrase enclosed and sighed. That was his job. Coming up with phrases for cards; birthdays, congratulatory, mother’s day, father’s day and every other stupid trite occasion that business men had capitalised on.

It was boring and as bland as a writing job could get with the highlight of his day being able to come up with an amusing enough phrase that consisted of one pun and three exclamation points. Those false little cheery notes that he didn’t even feel were all that he was supposed to write.

It was after all what people wanted. Silly humour or tooth aching sweetness that was supposed to cheer someone up or show appreciation that was otherwise non-existent for every other day of the year. John knew he was being cynical but after three years of writing for these silly cards, he felt that he was qualified to scoff at the whole business.

If only people knew that the writer behind their birthday cards or valentines poem was the very same one who wrote the epic War trilogy novel that everyone had been hooked on five years ago. Of course he was still earning a tidy sum from the royalties, the books were still selling well, but he was not able to write anymore.

Ever since Mary died, his inspiration to continue writing tales of men in the trenches and exploding grenades and disintegrated along with his wife. Her battle with ovarian cancer had been a quick and silent, one minute he was on a book tour in the US and the next he was getting a call that she was going for a check-up and medical tests. Mary did not call him after that and John had figured that there was nothing wrong.

Three days later hospital had called informing him that his wife was in a coma. John was in disbelief; Mary had chosen to go through with a hysterectomy without even so much as asking him what he thought. There were complications from the operation and soon her body succumbed to an infection, barely a week later Mary was dead. John had been on the plane en route back to London at the time.

As with the hypes of books went, interest in his books faded eventually. It was still known as a good series undoubtedly but sales had dropped to a plateau and that was that. John stretched and went to boil some water. Dwelling on the past was no good and distracting himself was what his therapist had recommended. Just as he plopped a tea bag into his mug John heard his laptop announce an incoming email with a ping. 

**_That was funny enough, try harder next time. Registered you for writing convention, it should assist you with techniques in writing for humour and improve your overall skills._ **

**_Sarah_ **

John snorted. His boss had no idea that he was the author of a famous war trilogy; he had conveniently omitted that out in the resume, wanting to start fresh without reminders of the books. Sarah had been hounding him recently to come up with fresher and wittier phrases but recently faking cheerful words had been getting harder.

The last thing John wanted to attend was a writing convention, if there was any place that his name had any risk of being recognised it would be it. Of course he could simply use his usual excuse that it was a common name. He needed to job, with his royalties diminishing with each cheque; it wouldn't be long before he would not be able to upkeep the rent of for the flat.

 


End file.
